Hit
by Simon920
Summary: An assassin has a contract on Robin.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. Baeden2020 

Note: I'm not a doctor nor do I play one on TV. Any and all medical mistakes are mine and mine alone; which is good reason to be grateful that I don't practice medicine.

**Hit**

He raised the gun, target in sight. It was an easy shot, anyone could make it from this distance. Fish in a barrel, that's what it was.

No big deal; just another assignment. Easy-peasy, no muss, no fuss. In and out, finished and done then have dinner and a beer.

That was what it was supposed to be. That was what it should be. Just another day at the office for which he was well paid. And that's what it was until push came to shove, then it wasn't as SOP as it had sounded when he'd been given the job.

The whole key to how he made a living was to stay detached, not think, get it done. If you didn't do that then you'd take work home with you and that was the end of your livelihood. You stop, you pause and you were done.

But this time he did pause, something he'd never done before, not on a job. The target had walked out of the back entrance, avoiding the press and a bunch of young girls; fans, no doubt, waiting for a picture or autograph. In the secure lot he pulled on a custom leather jacket and helmet, adjusting the fit, shrugging and flexing his shoulders like they were sore.

Could be.

He was well-built, not that it would help, and he looked slightly older than his assumed eighteen years. Probably good-looking, from what he could see and, in all likelihood a nice kid from a nice family.

It didn't matter.

Raising the rifle he started to take aim, then pulled back as a man appeared from behind one of the parked cars, walked over and started talking with the target. Helmet pulled off, placed on the bike's seat, they seemed to settle in for a chat, laughing at something he couldn't hear, trading jokes from the look of things. Or maybe they were just BS-ing about the day's work. Could be.

Who cared, they were screwing up his schedule but then, in his business waiting was part of the game.

He settled back again, patient. The new arrival was blocking the shot, just standing too close and large enough to make a clean shot a problem.

How long could they talk? The both probably had places to go, places to be, things to do—didn't they? He sipped the cardboard coffee container, now gone luke-warm. He could wait and if today didn't work, then tomorrow was soon enough. Impatience pushed into the background, he waited.

He sipped some more now cold coffee, wishing that he had more and that it was hot. The sun was getting low and the rooftop was windy, it was unpleasant to be there, unmoving and he could feel his fingers begin to cramp. His legs were getting sore, too, from inactivity; he'd been here almost three hours, waiting.

Turning his head slightly he watched a flock of birds—geese?—flying low between buildings. If they banked left and went far enough they'd be in the flight path of Goodwin International Airport. Maybe they'd get sucked into an engine, at least that would give him something to look at. All right, he chastised himself, he didn't want anyone to get hurt, he was just bored.

That made him smile to himself. He didn't want anyone to get hurt, that was rich. But the truth was that he didn't, he didn't wish anyone ill, didn't want anyone to get hurt, wanted sick children and puppies to get better and really wished that someone would actually find a cure for cancer and everything else.

He didn't even have anything against the kid down there killing time jawing with that off-duty cop. He didn't. It was just a job, just another assignment. The kid hadn't ever done anything to him.

It wasn't personal.

It surprised him how many people didn't understand that, though (he admitted to himself) perhaps it shouldn't.

At last the cop, the man talking to the kid turned his head, someone was calling him back into the building. With a smile and a nod, he went back inside, left the boy alone.

Shouldering the rifle again he sighted as the helmet was replaced on the boy's head, supposed to be giving protection. A simple motorcycle helmet wouldn't even slow down the caliber he was using. It wouldn't make any difference.

He sighted on his target.

Taking a deep breath, mentally settling himself, he centered on the boy's chest where he judged the heart was beating then gently squeezed the trigger.

The boy was thrown violently backwards by the impact, his body spun around and forcing him to fall over the motorcycle onto the pavement on the far side of the bike.

Not wasting time to make sure he'd accomplished his assignment—he knew he had—the man disassembled the rifle in seconds, replacing the pieces back in the Velcro secured pockets of his 'working' jacket, which he turned inside out so that the blue side was out, the tan side acting as a lining and left his hiding place. Removing the wig he'd been wearing, he stuffed it into a pocket leaving nothing to suggest he'd changed his appearance before attempting his escape. The roof access stairway was out of sight line of the police parking lot and he was down to street level and calmly walking away from the rear of the building unseen less than thirty seconds later.

He could just hear the noise and chaos starting, resulting from what he'd just done. Shouts, squealing wheels and, a moment later, sirens in the distance from an ambulance. He continued his sedate walk away from the scene, stopping into a small bodega for a bottle of cold water, turning like any tourist would to watch the emergency vehicles squeal past.

"Sumtin's happenin'" The clerk commented without interest.

He nodded with the same apathy. "So it seems." He left the shop, strolling to a subway entrance which would take him to walking distance of his car. He'd be home within an hour.

Sitting in his living room, his wife cooking dinner in the kitchen, he turned on the news. It would probably be the lead story, it would be the big news of the day, maybe the big news for the week.

"Repeating today's top story; Robin was the target of what witnesses are saying was likely an assassination attempt less than ninety minutes ago in the secure parking lot of GPD's 7th precinct. Apparently a single gunman firing what forensic people have detirmined was a .416 caliber bullet from a heavy gauge rifle hit Robin in the chest as he was about to mount his motorcycle. His condition is not being released at this time and speculation is that the wound is life threatening. We're expecting an announcement shortly and will bring it to you live..."

The kid wasn't dead? 'The fuck! Hit square in the chest and he's still breathing? C'mon, not a chance—those bullets were used for killing goddamn polar bears; the kid was dead, the cops were just holding off for now. It wouldn't even had made any difference if he'd been wearing a bulletproof vest; those slugs could go through concrete, let alone Kevlar.

Sure, that's all. The kid had to be dead. No one could survive a direct hit, no one. 'Probably waiting for the usual notification of next of kin or something. Sure, that was it—hadda be.

"Honey? Dinner."

"'Right there."

After the chicken was finished he went down to his workshop out in the garage, fiddling with the lawn mower while he listened to the radio's police band. There was a heavy search going on to find the gunman, to find _him _but it was obvious that the cops didn't have any idea who they were looking for. Any time they put out the call for the public to please come forth with any information it was a neon sign saying they didn't have a clue. So far he was in the clear.

But...he pulled out his cell phone. "I want my money."

"When we know they job's compete."

"You heard the news, he was shot."

"Shot ain't dead. He dies, you get your money."

"It's gonna start getting hot around here, I need to get away for a while."

There was a quiet laugh on the other end of the line. "Fuckin' idiot, you shoulda thought about that before you took the job. Whaddya think was going to happen? The kid is who he is, he's got the friggin' Justice League and every Tom, Dick and Harry hero guarding his back. What? You thought the cops would pin a medal on you?"

"C'mon, Micky, we've been friends a long time. You gotta help me out here."

A pause. "Okay, tell you what, I'll get at least ten G's to you by morning. Use it and keep track of what's happening on this end. Lay low, you'll be fine."

"Thanks, Mick."

"I mean it; lay low. Get lost for a while, maybe a long while. Even if the kid lives you know it's not over."

"Yeah." He closed the phone, cut off the call. Yeah, he knew.

* * *

Two minutes after the attempt both the Flash and Superman were on the scene to find two cops giving Robin CRP and trying to keep his heart going, trying to keep him breathing. The first ambulance arrived within three minutes after that, threading it's way through the parking area swamped with police, forensics people, detectives.

The injury was bad, very bad. The victim was in shock, unconscious and losing too much blood. An immediate call was made to the closest hospital to expect a wounded police office; no reason to alert the media or the public quite yet that it was a popular and very young member of the hero community. Better to at least call Batman first, let him know before he heard the news somewhere else.

The JLA members used their abilities to scout the area but the shooter was gone, at least for now. There was a spent cartridge on an adjacent rooftop but no DNA was found, at least not yet. The area had been wiped clean. No fingerprints, whoever it was had probably worn gloves. The cartridge was standard, could be purchased in any sporting goods store. There was nothing remarkable about it other than its size; this was designed to kill.

And the killer was either a superior marksman or very lucky—and the odds were on the former.

"Rob was targeted for the hit."

Superman nodded. "Again."

Flash shook his head, "But this time they didn't miss."

"He's tough, he'll be all right."

"Whistling in the dark, Kal? Of course he's tough and he'll have the best doctors on the planet but you saw him as well as I did..."

Superman cut him off, interrupted; a rare lapse. "He's going to be fine." If he said it out loud, it had to be true, right?

* * *

Along with the money, an astounding fifty thousand instead of the promised ten, was the name of a plastic surgeon guaranteed to be discrete. He went to the address at the appointed time, was operated on and taken to a safe house, courtesy of the Gotham Mob.

They'd take care of their own; honor among thieves and all of that.

He'd always made sure that wife knew nothing, always thought that he was a traveling salesman, which was the reason he was often 'on the road'. All she knew was that he was gone. Sure, things were a little rocky between them sometimes, but that was any couple, right? At first she didn't even worry; he'd be back, he always came back.

But this time he didn't. All that happened was that deposits were made into their savings account and she knew it was to pay the bills. There were no notes, no letters, no phone calls, no e-mails, no Skype, no contact.

In fact she_ did_ know. She's known for years but never said anything. She knew better than to ask or question and the bargain with the devil was one she lived with. She'd known what he'd done to make him run and she understood that it wasn't because he didn't love her or because there was another woman. But she did feel badly for the boy.

* * *

Robin was rushed into emergency surgery, Superman's (as well as Robin's) reputation ensuring that the best doctors and specialists available were immediately attending.

Batman was called but, of course, already knew. He asked to be kept informed. Every available member of both the JLA and the Titans entered the manhunt.

The surgery, the first one, lasted seven hours before the boy was moved up to an ICU with two police officers guarding his room.

The victim's identity leaked within hours, containment was impossible, too many people knew who'd been brought in, was rushed into surgery, was under guard.

The hospital was surrounded by press and well-wishers. Updates on his condition were issued hourly, special news bulletins were broadcast for days, the social media sites were swamped with comments, outrage, fear and concern. All anyone would say was that surgery had been successful and the doctors were hopeful for recovery; no one would venture to say whether or not they were hoping for _full_ recovery or simply survival.

As usual, Batman had no comment, refusing all requests for interviews or statements.

The mound of flowers, candles, stuffed animals and candles in front of the hospital grew hourly.

A day went by, two, three. A week. The generic comments about hope for recovery were repeated, sometimes with a hint of more hope than just having Robin continue to breathe.

Eleven days after the shooting the head of the Thomas Wayne General Hospital called a press conference to announce that Robin had been termed healed enough to be released, which had happened around three o'clock the previous morning to avoid a crush of reporters and well-wishers. He'd been removed to a quiet location where he could heal in peace, He'd been taken away in a private ambulance in the underground garage to avoid any kind of crush or the possibility of being followed. No, there would be no further statements though that didn't stop the questions being asked and, as several months went by, the clamor became louder rather than fading away.

Finally, with little choice, Commissioner Gordon made the reluctant announcement that, "despite the best and unceasing efforts of both the GCPD and the combined abilities of virtually every hero currently active, no arrests had been made, though the case will remain open and active and we_ will_ apprehend the person or persons responsible—and no, I have no update on Robin's condition or recovery. That's a private matter for his friends and family."

Jim Gordon wished like hell he knew what was happening with the boy, though.

* * *

"How can this happen?" Batman was staring at his computer monitor, sitting in the JLA satellite. "This is..." he stopped, at a loss. It had been six weeks since the shooting and the perpetrator was still at large, All they knew was that it was a mob hit, likely instigated in retaliation against a large bust Robin had made two months earlier collaring twelve highly placed leaders of the East Coast organized crime syndicate. It was obvious that the hit-man was being hidden, protected by his or her employers.

Honor among thieves.

"Everyone is still searching, Bruce. You know that—no one is giving up and we won't until we solve this."

He shook his head. "This isn't just another case, this is Dick we're talking about. Not solving is unacceptable." And the more time which passed, the smaller the odds of finding the assassin.

Diana nodded, yes, it was and the case would be solved, one way or another. It would be. "How is he doing now? I haven't heard an update since..."

"No change." It was a bat-answer, curt, bordering on rude. And final, brooking no appeal. She still didn't know how the boy was doing, whether he'd recover or not, whether he'd even survive long term. Shaking her head she privately wondered if this might be the best thing for Dick, to get him out of this life and away from, well, away from what he'd been living with since he'd partnered with Batman.

* * *

The shooter simply disappeared. Despite the best and ongoing efforts of the police, CIA, FBI, Interpol, JLA, Teen Titan and every other enforcement power on Earth, the person responsible remained elusive.

In fact, he was simply wearing a different face, a different set of fingerprints and living in a different country hiding in plain sight.

* * *

Finally the Titans demanded answers from Batman concerning the status of their friend. Reluctantly but forced to admit that they had a right to know he spoke bluntly; "Though it won't be officially released to the news media, Robin isn't dead; that's the good news. Physically he's likely to make a reasonable recovery, especially considering the extent of the damage. Psychologically, mentally and emotionally, well, time would help but there would be no guarantees.

"The best doctors in the world are doing the best they can, that's all they can do. Beyond that, it was up to Dick."

The Titans exchanged looks; it was something, not much, but something. At least he was still alive and being cared for by the best who could be found. Donna spoke up, "When can we see him?"

"I'll let you know."

Not good enough for Roy. "And who's deciding, you or Dick?"

"Dick and his doctors."

Another exchange of looks, thoughts exchanged with glances. "Where is he?"

"That's classified, sorry."

"Still no ID on the shooter?"

"No name yet."

Kid Flash shook his head. "But Uncle Barry said that everyone thinks it was a mob hit-man and that's who they're all looking for, that the cops and everyone thinks that whoever it was is probably hiding out of the US in Europe or Asia or someplace. Is that true?"

"I'm not going to comment on that."

"But..." Seriously? The Bat was clamming up with the Teen Titans and refusing to answer questions about their _leader_? This was to much even for Aqualad. "Aquaman says that's the accepted thought, yes. He also told me that you're even stonewalling the JLA and that..."

Batman had listened to enough for one afternoon, "If you'll excuse me..." He turned and walked away, the meeting was over, they were dismissed and knew there was no point in arguing. With little choice, they simply left but would ask the rest of the JLA for further information. They might even get lucky and be given some real answers.

Left alone in the Batcave Batman stripped to the waist and began hitting the punching bag, letting his own thoughts go over the questions he knew everyone had and which he couldn't—or wouldn't answer: 'On the plus side, he's young, strong and motivated. On the other side of the coin he's too smart and aware not to understand that this could happen again at any time without warning. No one could promise that the next attempt wouldn't succeed. No one could ensure that he'd live to see his twentieth birthday, or his eighteenth, let alone his sixtieth. For most of the recognized members of the heroes community (as well as their families, at least one ones who knew about their relatives activities) this was the bargain they'd made, but most of the recognized heroes hadn't started on that career path when they were nine years old.'

He switched from the punching bag to weigh lifting, pulling the handles to lift two hundred pounds with each arm.

'This could be the time and cause for reflection, adjustments and reconsideration. He was still in his teens, hardly too late for a course change.'

He stopped, let the cables fall. "The hell with it. An announcement can wait until decisions are made."

* * *

Robin was still in the induced coma six weeks after the shooting. The damage to his heart had been catastrophic and beyond repair but the transplant had been successful. It had been simple luck that an acceptable donor match had come into Metropolis General within twenty-four hours of the boy being placed on the heart machine, keeping his blood pumping and his organs functioning. The healthy heart (it's destination arranged for and delivered by Superman) was given by the family of a high school student killed while texting and driving; fortunately for Robin the victim's body was intact, death caused by severe head injuries.

Finally, after close to two months, the drugs in his system were reduced, allowing him to slowly come back to consciousness. It was a slow process, allowed to progress at a pace to not force the boy's traumatized body into any more stress.

After two days of being weaned off the medication he opened his eyes, squinting in the semi-darkened room, confused but calm. Offered a n ice chip he almost nodded, then looked at the nurse, silently asking for a few more. His throat, tongue and mouth now moistened he managed to whisper "Where?"

"Wayne General, the long term care ward."

Long term. "How long?" It was barely audible.

The woman's voice was soft, soothing as she spoke. "It was six weeks, three days ago. You were shot

by a high caliber bullet which cause severe damage to your heart and several arteries, you received a transplant..." She paused at the alarmed look in Robin's eyes then continued. "A heart transplant, you were put into an induced coma for the last five and a half weeks or so to allow you body the best chance to heal and you're doing very well." He looked so frightened. "The doctors decided to let you wake up, they're happy with the progress you've made; you're doing very well, you really are."

"But...?" He trailed off, either not up to conversation or afraid of the answer.

"We don't know yet how much improvement will happen, it's too soon to know what you'll be capable of—physically-at the end of this. You'll need physical therapy and a lot of it but the harder you work at that the better..." She saw the look on his face. "I know you'll work hard, you should be able to start very soon, maybe even this week."

"What else?"

"You'll have to be on meds to help suppress your immune system to guard against your body rejecting your new heart. That's for the rest of your life." The boy's eyes closed, whether in frustration, shock or simply because he didn't want to hear anymore. A long moment passed in silence. "I'll be back in a while, if you need anything just press the red button next to you."

"Excuse me, have any of my friends been here, is anyone here now?" The voice was still weak but getting stronger with some use.

The nurse stopped, his eyes were opened now, looking at her. "Why yes, several people have been here a number of times, they brought all of those (she gestured to the flower laden windowsill). I can check if anyone is here now and send them in for you." There was no response as he seemed to be trying to read the labels on the IV bags.

* * *

The search for the assumed hit-man continued without success. It was now apparent that whoever had shot Robin was a professional,not that was ever in any real doubt, It was also clear the man (?) had gone underground, was being protected by his employers or whomever and that the more time passed, the harder it wold be to find the attempted killer. There was precious little evidence, a spent cartridge, a bodega owner who said an anonymous looking man had come in shortly after the shooting had occurred, exchanged some small talk and left. That was as close as they had to a possible suspect. His description? Average height, average looks, generic middle-aged, no distinguishing features.

The supposed murder gun wasn't found, at least not yet.

The search continued.

* * *

"I'll be okay, don't worry about me and thanks. Thank you for everything."

The nurse helped him into a wheelchair so that he could be transported down to the exit and was saying his goodbyes. The boy was leaving today to go someplace, they weren't sure quite where but they'd been assured that he'd be getting the PT and medical help he needed to come back as far as he could.

Once the fuzzy painkillers had worn off he'd proven to be really a sweet thing, cooperative, pleasant, non-demanding and easy to get along with. The staff hadn't made a big deal over him and he seemed happy about that, no fuss, no muss. His friends came by to see for themselves how he was, cheer him up and hang out and also made no demands, were quiet, well behaved and no trouble.

The only question was how far he'd be able to come back. The injury was almost fatal; it was touch and go for longer than anyone liked and he was still recovering, still dealing with the meds and possible rejection. Even if he did make what was considered a full recovery it was unlikely that he'd be able to achieve the level of athleticism he'd enjoyed before.

Mentally he was almost back to where he was, though still sometimes fuzzy from the drugs; that side of him should be fine. His forensics abilities, his detective skills were unimpaired. He was, or had been, a world class athlete.

Whether he realized it or not, that part of his life was probably over.

There was no reason why he couldn't still solve crimes and work with both the various police agencies as well as the hero community, he'd been irrevocably physically compromised.

Two months after Robin's release from the hospital he was back at Wayne Manor, working with a personal trainer/physical therapist who'd been told his injuries were the result of a hunting accident. "You're making good progress, amazing when you consider the extent of your damage, you have to be patient. It'll get better, you have to give it time."

Alfred watched from the doorway, tray of snacks in hand, thinking "'exactly the wrong thing to say to a teenager".

Dick, tired, sore and frustrated pressed his lips together to suppress the retort begging to be released, took several deep breaths, refocused and bend back to the task at hand.

Later that night after dinner Alfred decided that it was time to have a talk with the master. Letting himself into the study, fire burning low in the large stone fireplace, he silently shut the door behind him.

Bruce looked up from writing checks at his grandfather's antique mahogany desk. "Yes?"

"Have you kept yourself appraised about the young master's progress?"

"Of course." Why?

"I'm...concerned." Bruce waited for him to continue. "He doesn't seem to be coping as well as we might have hoped, I suspect that he's close to giving up."

"Impossible, this is Dick we're talking about. He's just going through a rough patch; he'll come out of it."

"Perhaps, but at the moment..." He paused. "At the moment I remain concerned both for his physical and emotional recovery."

"Dick always lands on his feet, you know that' it's one of his main strengths, always will be."

"I fear perhaps not this time, sir. Have you spoken to him recently?"

Bruce was slightly taken aback, this wasn't like Alfred. Okay, he'd been away the last few weeks flying the Wayne corporate flag in Europe and Asia but he was hardly ignoring the boy and he seems fine, a little down now and then but that was hardly surprising under the circumstances. "Tell me."

"He walked out of today's PT session, as he's done at least twice a week for the past month and it's becoming harder to get him to focus on either his workouts or his school work. Two days ago his Titan friends stopped by yo pay a visit and he refused to leave his room to receive them. When Master Roy and Miss Donna went up to see him, he refused to open his door for them. He had me send them away, with apologies."

"Well..."

"He's off his feed, I know he's not sleeping and this morning I accidentally saw his personal journal. I'm deeply concerned."

Alfred read Dick's journal? _Alfred? _That got Bruce's attention; this was an unprecedented breech of everything Alfred believed in.

"What did you see?" The question was softly spoken, completely focused..

"Without going into unnecessary detail, he seems to feel that this may may be beyond his ability to overcome. That without his former level of athleticism he's been unduly, I'm tempted to say fatally compromised and that while he can still fulfill the intellectual side of his vocation, seems to believe that's not enough." Bruce listened, waited for Alfred to go on. "The one comment I seem unable to put aside is that he wrote that he feels 'less than half of what he was'. I fear for him, Bruce."

The fact that Alfred had used his christian name alone was enough to raise red flags.

But... "I'm not sure how to broach this without him knowing that his privacy has been, you know..."

"Invaded, quite. If I may suggest, perhaps I might be able to speak with him indirectly about the situation." The master's relief was visible. "I'll see what might be done, sir."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

The hit-man was laying low. He had a new name, new face, new fingerprints, plenty of money to spend if he so chose and enough placed in various CD's and anonymous off-shore accounts to provide for his wife forever. He also had the intelligence to know that as long as he managed to live—however long or short that might be, he would be hunted by the best detective and police minds on the planet.

Not being a stupid man, he doubted that it would be all that long.

But, in his ore reflective moments, he privately agreed that was the bargain he'd made when he'd began in this line of work. He didn't even have any regrets, at least none of consequence. He'd made his choice and it had provided well for him for a long time.

Now he was paying the piper.

* * *

"Clark, anything yet?"

Superman looked up from the JLA's main monitor, Green lantern was in the doorway. "No, not yet. We know it was a contract shooting from the Gotham mobs, probably the Molinari Family, but no one is talking and whoever pulled the trigger has gone underground. He or she is being protected and until we can get someone to talk or he gets careless..." He shook his head.

"Seriously? This is Dick we're talking about, we have to find this guy, it can't be a dead end, it's not like we're without resources here. Everyone makes mistakes, everyone slips up; it's inevitable—they'll show themselves sooner or later."

"And when they do we'll catch him."

"Isn't that we said about the Zodiac killer?" Oh yeah, that...".No one's leaned on them?"

"Of course, both me and Batman have 'talked' with them but so far they're standing firm."

"I can't believe this is still unsolved." Jordan turned to go but paused. "It just so frigging frustrating."

Superman privately agreed but said nothing.

* * *

Dick was down in the solarium going through his PT routine yet again as Alfred watched, unseen, through one of the windows. Thank god it was summer vacation so his school friends and teachers wouldn't question his whereabouts but the coming September start date for his first year of college was fast approaching and could be a problem. The obvious solution would be to simply inform the various officials that he was either being home schooled or was working an internship someplace. No one would question Bruce Wayne's ward deferring matriculation to assist his guardian in some project or other. Explaining the extent of his injuries would be impossibly difficult if he went to his regular classes; yet another sacrifice the boy would have to make.

The sound of breaking glass brought Alfred out of his reverie. Dick had thrown something heavy (that small Egyptian sculpture perhaps?) and smashed one of the windows.

Leaving the room—running would be closer to it—the boy avoided a collision with Alfred by inches. "...Sorry." He started off again but...

"Master Richard, an explanation, please."

Dick stopped as though jerked back by a rope, stood breathing heavily for a moment then, making an obvious effort, collected himself enough to respond. "Sorry, I guess I was just a little frustrated."

"An understandable reaction if not altogether appropriate." Alfred immediately regretted his criticism.

"Forgive me, it would seem to me that you have more than enough reason for being unhappy at the moment. Is there anything which might help, make things a bit easier for you?"

"Make it so I don't have to take drugs every day, make me whole again, make my chest stop hurting, make me stop being tired all the time and catch the bastard who did this; that would make this easier." He stared daggers at the impossibility of the question, the impossibility of the answer. A curt nod and he was gone, likely to shower and rest.

Sighing with sadness, Alfred went to the kitchen to begin dinner preparations and to think. This had been going on too long and while Dick's frustration and anger were reasonable and would, hopefully subside in time, he was beginning to have his doubts.

"Perhaps it may be past time for me to make my suggestion to the Master."

Tonight.

* * *

Dinner that night was strained.

Bruce was preoccupied and Dick was in a foul mood mixed with depressed. He was also suffering side effects from his anti-rejection meds which caused him to endure almost constant nausea. Alfred walked in on...

"I can't believe that the best law enforcement officers, detectives and every hero group in the community can't catch one mid-level hit-man. It's frigging unbelievable."

Bruce considered his words. "I understand but it's obvious that the man is being protected and likely is already out of the country. It's also possible that he's changed his appearance and fingerprints. In addition he was probably using an alias when he was hired to kill you and..."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Dick, we're all doing..."

"Yeah, everyone's doing everything they can. You know what this reminds me of? Remember that old movie, the one with Charles Bronson, um, Death Wish."

"Remind me."

"That's the one where he plays a guy whose wife is killed by some street punks so he becomes a one-man vigilante squad, killing or stopping or whatever every criminal in New York; except the guy who killed his wife. That's the one he never finds."

Bruce sighed, he'd never seen Dick like this.

"But you know what's really killing me here? The fact that I can't do anything about it. Okay, sure, I worked the computer and stuff, but I'm stuck on the sidelines and there isn't a damn thing I can do that'll make a difference."

They had to solve this. They had to.

* * *

The hit-man who was under discussion in that well-appointed dining room just outside of Gotham was sitting on the small porch of a small house in a small village in the mountains of Chile. The view was magnificent, the electricity spotty and communication difficult at best. He was as safe as he could hope to be. His looks were surgically changed enough to make recognition seriously unlikely, he'd lost twenty pounds.

No one knew his name, no one knew where he'd come from nor why and no one here cared so long as he was quiet, kept to himself and caused no trouble. He bothered no one and no one bothered him. It seemed a fair bargain.

And he could pick up and leave at a moment's notice.

* * *

Superman stopped by Wayne Manor as he'd been doing at least twice a week since Dick was released from the hospital and was allowed to continue his recovery away from the facility. And he was worried about the boy, he simply wasn't getting better—physically or emotionally—as everyone had both hoped and expected. This was Robin they were dealing with, the kid who'd channeled being orphaned into turning himself into one of the most respected and sought after vigilantes on the planet.

"Alfred? Excuse my barging in, but I was wondering if I could visit with Dick, see how he's doing today."

"Of course, Master Superman, I'm sure he'll be happy to see you, as he always is. Please follow me."

Not only were his friends and co-workers concerned but the news media, legitimate or otherwise were having a field day wondering where Robin was, was he alive, was he getting better, was he dead, was he retired, was he paralyzed, had he eloped with Wonder Girl, suffering from PTSD or was he simply too distraught by what had happened to him to face his public?

"I'm afraid that he seems to be walking the grounds, if you'd like me to ask security where he..."

"I'm sure I can find him, thank you."

In fact, of course, he was a young man who'd lived through more painful, heartrending, terrifying, exhilarating and unforgettable things in his short life than most people experience in several lifetimes. The fact that it might finally be overwhelming him was understandable and healing, if healing there would be beyond what they'd see so far, would take time and probably a lot of it. Beyond that, he'd always been able to rise above whatever was trying to squash him on any given day—until now. Hard as it was to believe e(this was Robin they were dealing with), this seemed to have hit him too hard and might be flat out too much for him to bounce back from.

He found Dick sitting on a bench overlooking the city across the river.

"Would you mind some company?"

Dick turned his head with a small smile, "Sure, have a seat."

Silence.

It stretched longer.

Dick watched a freighter making it's way toward the ocean.

More silence stretching into long minutes.

Then likely feeling awkward, he finally spoke, "'Sorry. Thanks for coming; I guess you're worried, right?"

Clark watched the ship disappear around a bend in the river. "It's normal that it's taking time for you to get back to being yourself. 'Frustrating, but it's a matter of patience and..."

"Clark, stop." Dick continued to stare at the distant city scape. "I'm not going to come all the way back. I've talked with the doctors and they've told me the deal. I'll get a bit better and stronger but it's impossible for me to regain the level I had before I was shot. It's not going to happen." His voice was final, brooking no disagreement.

"That may be true but consider that the level you were at was that of one of the top athletes on the planet. A ten percent reduction in that ability shouldn't have a major effect on..."

"Stop, seriously. Listen to what you're saying."

He was right, it was a ridiculous comment. "...You've been thinking about what to do now." It wasn't a question.

A nod. "The thing is that I know there's still a lot I can do from a chair or with a computer to fight crime, but..."

"But?"

"But I don't think I want to. And I'm not sure what I want to do; that's the problem."

"It's still early, you're still adjusting—give it time, don't push it and see what seems right to you."

Dick was listening and even agreed but, still... "That's the thing. I feel like, I, I don't know. I feel like my life has been taken away from me. I know that sounds melodramatic but it's how I feel. I thought I knew what my life would be. I even knew that I could be killed and I was sort of okay with that, it's part of the deal when we do this. But this... I didn't figure on _this_ happening, being handicapped. I don't know how to deal with this." He shook his head, "I really don't."

"I know you've been seeing a therapist, has it helped?"

A small shrug. "I guess. Maybe." He sort of smiled. "Not really. The thing is that I know I have to make adjustments, that my life has changed. I know it wasn't my fault, I know—knew—that it could happen anytime to any of us and my number just came up. I get it; I really do. The problem is that, it's that...I guess it's that I know what I should be doing but I don't see the point."

"There are any number of things..."

"...That I can do. Right, got it. The problem is that I don't want to do any of them."

Clark inhaled slowly, framing his words, changed his mind. "This isn't like you. You're the most resilient person I know. Bruce copes but he's let his obsession control his life; you've always more than coped, enjoyed what you did. I always thought of it as Bruce slogging through the waves, grabbing a breath here and there while you surfed along on top in control."

Dick laughed at the imagery. "Maybe it seemed that like that, anyway." His cell phone chimed, looking at the screen he said, "Lunch is ready, join us?"

After eating, after watching Dick eat the restricted diet of bland food, low sodium and pills, Clark left. His worst fears had been confirmed and he made a decision he'd putting off for weeks now.

He knew what he had to do.

* * *

The hit-man had moved again, leaving Chile and now staying in a remote area of Brazil. No one knew who he was, no one cared. No one asked, no one noticed anything about him. He could stay here a while. In fact he didn't see what he had now as a bad life at all. He'd always loved to travel (though that made him smile), could pick up and go whenever he wanted, see what ever caught his eye, travel with the local peasants or stay at the Ritz. He ate at McDonald's and five star restaurants as the spirit moved him and he'd always been a loner when you came down to it. He knew his wife was being looked after, that she had enough money and would be protected.

All in all, he didn't mind his life at all.

Maybe Asia next or the South Seas.

* * *

Later, finally in bed, Dick lay awake. Looking out the large window towards the acres wide expanse of the side lawn, turning his head when reflections from the pool on his balcony caught his eye, he tried to put the night behind him. 'Forgive and forget', that was what Alfred had said.

He could forgive easily enough. He could even understand why the man, a total stranger had tried to kill him. It was a job, an assignment; money paid for services rendered. A business transaction, no more, no less.

Had the man gotten his money or was it partial payment for a job not completed?

Forgive and forget. That was easy. He was always forgiving people, just like people were always forgiving him for this or that; a rude comment, a forgotten towel on the floor, arriving somewhere late.

He could forgive the nameless man, the stranger who'd tried to kill him.

What he didn't know was how to forget.

A total stranger had tried to kill him, had done his research, waited in position for the opportunity and then played his hand. It was just a job to the hit-man, nothing more, nothing less. Money for services rendered. He'd been a money machine since he could remember, paid for working at the circus as a young child, generating money for tabloids and tee-shirt manufacturers and god knew what all since he was an adolescent.

He didn't figure in the equation other than as a source of income, a product to be exploited. He understood that. 'Different side of the same coin.

* * *

"Master Bruce, have you spoken with Master Clark recently?"

Regarding?"

"Master Dick. I believe that he—Master Clark—has been discussing some kind of possible resolution to the young master's situation."

* * *

It was almost too easy when all was said and done—if you consider having Superman personally intervene, arrange for a patient to be transported, shrunk to the necessary size and then operated on by Kandorian doctors to repair the damage to Dick's new heart. Then medically override his body's natural rejection immune system so that the transplanted heart was not only now genetically identical to his DNA but also stronger than his own, perfectly healthy heart had been before it was destroyed. In addition, all of the surrounding, damaged tissues were regenerated and were now also as they'd been before the attack.

"Kal, this means that..."

"It means that physically, in all pertinent ways, you're better than you were."

"You mean it's like it never happened?"

Kal and the head surgeon exchanged glances. "Not exactly. It means that your heart is now completely healed—or rather the transplanted one is. The shooting still happened and you still have to reconcile yourself to that fact but there's no physical reason why you can't continue as if it you were never injured."

"...Okay so you mean that my body is fine but I may still be screwed up mentally and emotionally."

"In lay terms, basically, yes."

"But I'm healthy, right?"

"As the proverbial horse."

Finally, finally Dick's real smile broke through for the first time since he was shot. "So we can go home now?"

"Just say the word."

* * *

"I declare, Master Richard, the difference is night and day. Master Superman has my eternal gratitude and that's a fact. Master Bruce?"

"He was helpful."

Dick rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Bruce, some credit where it's due, y'think? He saved my frigging life."

Bruce sighed, almost in pain. Of course he was ecstatic that Dick was completely healed and the fact that being healthy again had made the one hundred percent difference in his outlook. He was well and truly back and thank god. Being forever in Kal's debt, earned though it was, grated but enough of that. "So, do you think you're ready to suit up and join me for patrol tonight?"

"Yeah, um, do you mind if I just kind of stay in tonight?"

"Whatever you want, of course." What was this about? And that was the question left unspoken. His body was healed, but how would he ever fully recover from the trauma he'd been through? His parents had been murdered over a decade before but being able to catch their murderers and establish himself as one of the world's premier crime fighters had allowed the boy to move past what he'd been through. The fact remained that too often he still woke in a cold sweat reliving the nightmare of the Grayson's murders.

How would this be any different? And would it be worse since he was older and more aware of how close to death he'd come?

* * *

The hit-man had left Brazil for Bolivia. Continuing to move, he was never apprehended.

* * *

Robin, well, Dick Grayson went to Hudson as planned and Robin spread his wings as a solo vigilante in New Carthage but college wasn't a good fit and Dick left after a single semester. That story has been told.

"Look Bruce, I tried, okay? I'm just not Robin anymore. I've changed, I had a change of heart f'God'ssake; literally. I'm not that person, I'm different. I work alone most of the time, I have my own agenda now; I'm an adult. You have Jason—a mistake but I know you won't listen to me about that—you don't need me."

"So this is your answer?" Batman's anger was barely in check at this betrayal and rejection.

"In a very real sense I've been reborn. I want to make it official with a new identity, a new name."

"And that would be...?"

"Nightwing."

8/17/12


End file.
